I Love You, All Right?
by HermioneGirl96
Summary: After Bitty collapses during a game, Jack figures out that Bitty has PTSD. A one-shot, rating for language.


**Disclaimer: The characters are Ngozi's.**

" . . . And I played _terribly_, Jack. I took a check and went down just like when I was a freshman! I'm such a disappointment as captain; I can't believe anyone voted for me. I'm letting the whole team down."

"I'm such an idiot," Jack breathes into the phone.

"What does any of this have to do with _you_?" Bitty sounds bewildered. "You played great tonight, honey. Unless . . . is this about _us_? Do you think you're an idiot for dating me? Because, well, I wouldn't say you're wrong, but I just kind of—"

"No no no!" Jack protests as soon as he can find his tongue. More softly, he says, "No, Bits, of course not. I'm an idiot for not seeing what was right in front of this face this whole time. I've spent so much fucking time with the fucking DSM—how could I not realize—"

"What's the DSM?" Bitty breaks in.

Jack's taken aback. He forgets, sometimes, just how unusual his upbringing was. He knows it's not typical to have famous parents, of course, but sometimes he forgets it's also rather unusual to see as many therapists as he's seen or to know the world of professional psychology so well. "The Diagnostic and Statistical Manual," Jack explains. "It's what professionals use to evaluate and diagnose mental illnesses and certain disabilities."

"What does that have to do with me?" Bitty asks.

"Your thing with checking—it's not just a mental block," Jack says. "Bits, now that I'm thinking about it—and I can't believe I didn't see it before—I'm pretty sure you have PTSD from when your dad coached your peewee team."

"Really, Jack?" Bitty sounds beyond skeptical, close to disappointed. "It's not like I've been to war."

"PTSD isn't just for combat veterans," Jack argues, trying to keep the anger out of his tone. Bitty's the wrong target, anyway. The South as a whole, and Bitty's father in particular, are the ones Jack really wants to fight. "You were way too young to be tackling, and you were under all this pressure to perform for your dad—believe me, I know what that's like—and you knew even then that you were different, right? And I bet it all combined to be a pretty traumatic experience."

Bitty laughs weakly. "Just because I was too weak to handle being tackled when I was a kid—"

"Bits." Jack's tone is stern now. "Would you say I was weak for not being able to handle the pressures of heading into the draft at 18?"

"What?" Now Bitty sounds offended. "Jack, of course not. You know I don't think that."

"So why is it any different for you?" Jack demands. "You went through something really hard and it had an effect on you. That's not shameful. We both know that."

"But you were under actual pressure," Bitty protests. "You had the media, and your parents, and, like, the whole hockey-watching public. I was literally in peewees."

"In a culture you knew wouldn't accept you, with a father pushing you in ways my parents never would have," Jack returns.

Bitty sighs. "I appreciate you trying to make me feel like less of a failure for collapsing during the game today, but I'm the mentally healthy one in this relationship and we both know that."

"No we fucking don't," Jack replies. "The fact that you haven't been diagnosed with anything doesn't mean jack shit. You're clearly suffering, and I'm sorry I didn't figure out why sooner. But look. I'll get some recommendations for psychiatrists in the Providence area and we'll figure this out, okay?"

"Jack, I don't need a doctor; I just need more checking practice. I'll see if Dex or Nursey would be willing to help me out. Or maybe Tango? Anyway, I'll figure it out. The coaches won't try to boot me like they did sophomore year, at least not right away. Being captain should buy me some time."

Jack's been pulling up the diagnostic criteria for PTSD on his laptop, but he pauses at this and says, "The coaches tried to boot you your _sophomore year_?"

"Um, yeah?" says Bitty. "You know I started collapsing again at the beginning of that year. I thought you were part of that decision, honestly."

"Jesus Christ, really?" Jack can hear the horror in his own voice.

Bitty must hear it too, because he says, "Well, I don't think that now, obviously, but at the time I still thought you'd be happy to get rid of me, and I clearly wasn't pulling my weight on the team while I was collapsing all over the place."

"Oh, Bits, I'm sorry," Jack whispers.

"Jack," Bitty says forcefully. "You don't need to apologize."

"If you say so," Jack says. Then he focuses on his laptop screen again and says, "Okay, I've got the diagnostic criteria for PTSD pulled up. I want to read them to you and explain why I think you fit them. Is that okay?"

"I have a feeling you're going to do it anyway," Bitty mutters.

"Not if you really don't want me to," Jack says. "I'm pretty intent on dealing with this at some point, but if you really can't handle it now we can put it off a day or two."

Bitty sighs. "No, I suppose we might as well get this over with."

"Okay," says Jack. "So, first of all, you'd have to have experienced or witnessed a traumatic event that involved actual or threatened death or serious injury. Pretty sure tackling threatens serious injury, so you meet that one."

"I still feel really weak for supposedly being traumatized by that, but okay," Bitty replies.

"Your response involves a sense of intense fear or helplessness," Jack continues. "I'm pretty sure you meet that too."

"Maybe," says Bitty.

"Your response involves reliving the event in some way, like through recollections, dreams, hallucinations, flashbacks, or dissociation. I know you have nightmares about tackling, and meeting even one of those criteria counts. Also, you experience psychological distress and physical reactivity when confronted with events similar to the traumatic event. That's the freezing up during checks."

"Okay . . ."

"The next criterion is about avoidance. You definitely avoid talking about peewee football—and your dad in general—when you can. You also have a history of avoiding people, places, and events that could remind you of the event—both by avoiding going back to Georgia and by avoiding checks. There are a few symptoms on here you don't meet, like an inability to feel loving feelings or think about the future—at least, I don't think you're that good of an actor—but, where you do exhibit avoidance, it's pretty strong."

"Fine," Bitty grumbles.

"The next criterion is about increased arousal—"

"What?" Bitty demands.

"No, not like that!" Jack assures him. "Like, trouble sleeping and concentrating and remaining calm and stuff. Now, I'm not saying this to be mean, but your concentration is . . ."

"Absolute shit?" Bitty suggests.

"I wouldn't go that far, but it's not your greatest strength, you know?" says Jack gently. "And then there's also hypervigilance, like being really aware of when people are getting checked near you, and an exaggerated startle response, like collapsing when you get checked. To be diagnosable, your symptoms have to last at least a month—obviously they have—and impair your ability to do something important, like playing hockey."

Bitty's quiet for a while. Jack checks to make sure he hasn't hung up.

Finally, Jack says, "Bits? What are you thinking right now?"

"I was—" Bitty makes a choking sound. It takes Jack several moments to realize what he's listening to is sobbing. "I was supposed to be the healthy one," Bitty chokes out after crying for a while. "I was supposed to be the one who could handle things and I'm letting you down and—"

"Stop," Jack orders. "First of all, you didn't choose to have a mental illness. None of this is your fault. Secondly, I knew you had trouble with checking, even if I didn't know why for far too long. This shouldn't be a surprise to me. Third, if you do have PTSD, you've had it for a long time—the only thing a diagnosis will change is how much help you can get. And fourth, the load should be equal. Just because I have anxiety doesn't mean you're supposed to handle everything perfectly all the time and insulate me from the world. If anything, it should mean that I'll understand your mental illness better than most people and be able to help you navigate all of this."

"If you say so," replies Bitty, who's still crying.

Jack thinks back to his time during and just after rehab as he tries to figure out what Bitty needs to hear. After a few moments, he says, "You're not broken. You're still lovable. And I still love you, okay? I wish I could be there with you right now."

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann, don't you dare drive to Samwell right now. You have another game tomorrow!"

Jack sighs. "I know, I know. I won't drive to Samwell, I promise. But I'm going to do a bunch of research on psychiatrists in the area the next time I get a day off, and I want you to see one, okay? And in the meantime I'm going to remind you I love you as often as I can, and I want you to try to believe me. Can you do that for me?"

"Yeah," says Bitty shakily.

"Thanks. I love you, all right?"

This provokes a fresh sob from Bitty, who replies, "I love you too."


End file.
